


a bag of green apples

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Aragorn is pregnant. It's his ancestors' fault.
Relationships: Aragorn/Boromir
Comments: 4
Kudos: 77
Collections: Writing Rainbow Green





	a bag of green apples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> Title is from Metaphors by Sylvia Plath and only really makes sense in context of the poem.

_“The Gift and the Curse it is called, the ability of the line of Luthion to bear children, for it is both a blessing beyond the greatest every bestowed on Men (save perhaps that given first and last to Beren husband of Luthion) and a burden to bear on the battlefield and in court, both a weapon of massive power and a stone-weight tied to one’s ankle, dark and heavy._

_In the Era of the Stewards, though the memory of Númenor was yet strong and its people true Men of the West, Luthion’s blood was weakened in Gondor. There had not been an Heir of Elendil for many years. The gifts of the Line of Elros were but strange legend._

_But there was legend and then there was legend. Isildur’s children by his husband Valanur was proof enough from the records for the ability of the Line of Elros to be known, if disbelieved. The other power of Luthion, that moved Mandos himself to pity, the power that was said to dwell even in his descendants—that power was truly a legend, lost in the mists of time to all but the most inquiring minds.”_

—Mirion the Scribe, in the reign of Aragorn Elessar

—

**1.**

They had been careful, oh so careful.

Or, at least, Aragorn had been.

Boromir had not known. Did not know, still. Aragorn had not thought it important to warn Boromir. There were the herbs Elrond gave him, after all, and then the prophylactics of the old Ranger-methods, too, just to be sure.

And yet, for all his precautions—

Aragorn emptied the contents of his stomach into the green formerly-beautiful grass, again. For the fifth day in a row. He knew the signs. His father drilled them into his head even before he knew of his true heritage, in Rivendell when he'd still thought himself some strange half-Man half-Elf child.

Oh _Eru_.

He would have sworn out loud, but the Lady Galadriel crouched next to him, hand on his back, and he had at least that self-control left, not to make a complete fool of himself. Although the state of her dress indicated that he had crossed that bridge too late.

And even more so—

“The hobbits,” Aragorn murmured. “The Ring.”

It was calculation either way, of course it was, but it would be unacceptable to lead them to their deaths because he was not in full fighting shape.

“We have herbs for that,” the Lady Galadriel said, not unkindly, “they will keep you in form for three to four months, at least, if not very comfortable.”

And that—Aragorn knew that. He knew that, of course, but his thoughts were disturbingly blank at the moment.

Still, he had a choice to make.

**2.**

It was no choice.

“I was careful,” he told Boromir. He knew his voice edged into pleading, into begging for understanding. Not inspiring of trust or confidence, but it was all he could do to hold his frayed nerves together and hope that he could, that he did, pretend some kind of surity. “But I want—I want a child. Not by choice, not this way. But now—now that I _have_ one. I find I cannot…” He trailed off, spreading his fingers across his abdomen. He had no objections, in the abstract sense, but he wanted this child with a desperation that terrified even himself if he looked too hard at his thoughts.

And there, too, were the practical considerations. They had a month or two, at most, and even with child Aragorn would be able to fight for that duration. If he did what he needed to do to get rid of it, though, he could lose time, time that could push them from the razor-edge they stood on into utter defeat.

He was startled out of his thoughts by Boromir’s sharp voice. “And of course marching through Gondor’s gates with an heir already on its way and irrefutable proof of your claim would be advantageous too.” There was a bite to his demeanour, a shadow falling across his clear blue eyes that was too much like Darkness. Aragorn shuddered, unthinking, the words a lance through his hear.

But a moment later the Darkness was gone, replaced by worry and confusion so clearly written across Boromir’s features. “I—apologize. I do not know what came over me.” He closed his eyes, and in the dim light filtering through the mallorn-leaves Aragorn could see his face was haggard and weary, lines etched deep across it. “I am happy, I truly am. I just…”

“It is a sudden revelation,” Aragorn offered. He wished—but Boromir was his own man, and all Aragorn had any right to ask for was this. To hear him out. “I understand. If you wished—but no. I understand.”

But Boromir shook his head, took a deep breath. He seemed to come to some decision within himself, placing his hand over Aragorn’s, on Aragorn’s stomach. “No. I promise you, by Eru, I will not leave you alone. Not with this, not with our child.” He worried his lip between his teeth. Then, “Our child,” he repeated. A great smile split his face, the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and he kissed Aragorn, gentle and reverent.

“All will be well,” Boromir murmured. “I swear.”

Aragorn knew too much of the world to put stock in that promise. In any promise of life, in Middle-earth under the aegis of Sauron’s spreading power. So did Boromir, by the deep pain in his voice that Aragorn knew belied his words. And yet—

And yet, it was…nice to believe.

**3.**

“I have failed,” Boromir said. His lips are thin with pain. Aragorn saw in his face the pallor that heralded death, the marks of leaving that many battlefield vigils had etched into his mind.

In another life, it would have been the end. Boromir would have died on Amon Hen.

But Luthion son of Melian the Maia begged of Mandos Lord of the Halls of Death another life for Beren his mortal lover, and in doing so he gave those rare chosen few of Beren’s heirs a power they scarce knew they had, passed down as it was only by strange chance and marriages of close-linked men. And Aragorn soon-to-be-Elessar carried the child of Boromir Denethor’s son and held for him a love so fierce that he himself scarcely knew how deep it went.

“You made me a promise, Boromir,” Aragorn commanded harshly, gripping Boromir by his shoulders. “You promised me—you would not leave me alone.”

“Aragorn…” Boromir’s hand was blood-soaked where it came to rest over Aragorn’s abdomen, and his breath came in short, bitten-off gasps.

Aragorn pressed his own hand over Boromir’s. “ _Live_ , Boromir. I.” He closed his eyes, holding stinging tears at bay, making his entire demeanour pure steel. “I command you to live, as your lover and as your liege. You _will_ live.”

The power of an oath once sworn was a deep, deep thing.

Somehow, through some power, Boromir breathed in a lungful of air. And then he took another breath, and another, and his heart beat fast and strong where it lay under the palm of Aragorn’s hand.

And that, as they say, was the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Power of almost-resurrection through handwave, it's MAGIC! ~~I went 'what the fuck, self, tilapia aren't people and not even non-people tilapia work like this' while writing this fic.~~
> 
> ...I was going to write something that was waaaaay longer and then realized that if I continued this it'll be 5k+ and I don't have time for that so. There might be a sequel at some point? Idk.


End file.
